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eudaimonia83 · 9 months

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Chapter 6 is posted! For anyone who felt adrift last week bc of the new character, the Elucien goodness will hopefully make up for it this week. 🥰

Content warning: Solstice, but make it just a bit sinister. Muhahaha. No triggers that I can think of in this chapter.

Trivia moment: this chapter was the original basis for the entire fic. (It has obviously spiraled significantly into larger themes since then, lol.) I’ve long been annoyed that Lucien keeps being forced to hang out w the IC and then they act like he isn’t there, or treat him like he’s an enemy. *cough az and cass cough* So i wanted Elain to make him feel included…and to finally give him a thoughtful present. I also wanted Elain to be a bit more in her element, at a party.

There will probably be a couple weeks before this is updated again bc I will be working on a different piece for a bit, but there’s more coming!

Chapter 6: ELAIN

SOLSTICE NIGHT

The party was a bright affair, lamps all ablaze, faelights swirling like tiny acrobats in the rafters, and fires crackling merrily. Elain wore her lavender silk dress, against the advice of Nuala, who had suggested a darker color to match the rest of the guests. And it was true; Mor was resplendent in red and gold, Nesta icy in silver edged with white and jewelry of sparkling black, Feyre in deep royal blue. The three Illyrian brothers were in their customary matching black, though Azriel’s leathers somehow seemed the most formal attire of the lot. Rhysand had indulged in a violet-trimmed waistcoat and Cassian’s crimson siphons seemed to set everything he touched ablaze.

But after Elain had spent two hours trying to decide between a dark blue high-necked velvet gown and a long black dress festooned with big pink roses — hating how pale she looked, how thin and wan — she had finally thrown open her wardrobe doors and pulled out the soft, swishing dress with its fluttering skirt. It was not truly fancy enough for the occasion, she knew. It was a dress for a day in the gardens in the height of summer, for running in and out of the shade of her tall hedges, for trailing her hand in the fountain and dabbing the cool water on her neck to soften the heat of the sun’s kiss, for spending hours lying in the grass trying to identify the scent of each particular flower. But her heart had eased the moment she’d held it up and looked at herself in the mirror. It felt right. And in it, she felt beautiful. She knew people called her the pretty sister. She had used that as currency herself, drawing the attention of men and boys alike. But standing next to Nesta, regal and austere; or Feyre, slender and magnetic and alluring; or Morrigan, glowing and brash and curvaceous…she just felt ordinary. In this dress she could at least compare. To keep warm, she picked out a plum-colored velvet high-cut jacket edged in brown fur. The gentle color of it warmed against the bronze of her curls, which she left down; and her cheeks, still hollow from the weight she’d lost as a new Fae, looked like they picked up some color. She stared at her reflection for a while, feeling as though it all looked unfinished, when the bell tinkled merrily to announce that dinner was ready. On her way down the stairs, she passed a dripping bouquet of winter roses and pine garlands; one of the arrangements the decorators had brought earlier. The roses were cream-white with a pink edge to their petals. In sudden inspiration, Elain twisted two buds from the bouquet and prepared to tuck one into her hair, before thinking, be daring. Be brave. With the slightest of tremors, she instead tucked both of the flowers into the sweetheart collar of the dress, right above her décolletage. They warmed against her skin. Somehow, she didn’t need a mirror to know she had chosen well; she lifted her chin and walked down the steps. She passed a massive gilt-edged mirror as she went down the hallway to the dining room, and noticed that the buds had opened slightly against her skin, blushing and pale in equal measure. She stopped to straighten them only to find their stems firmly tangled in the fabric of the lining of her dress, so they pressed lightly against her breasts. Like they were hugging her. And when she’d entered the dining room, ever so slightly late — she remembered one of her human friends insisting they be late to a party, saying “no, Lainey, you must make an entrance” — she’d been pleased to find all eyes drawn to her. Even Amren’s steely gaze had narrowed.

Dinner had been loud, especially when Nyx had made an appearance after his nap. His eyes were ringed with tiredness, but lit up merrily when he saw Cassian, the undisputed favorite, who immediately waved at him and stuck his tongue out. Feyre now relinquished her son to his uncle and sat back on the lounge chair, tucking her feet up under the blue silk of her gown. Elain hadn’t spoken to her all day; when they’d arrived back from the Hewn City, later than people had expected, she had looked unsettled, and shuttered herself in with Rhysand for a good hour, the shields around the room thick and humming. She looked happier now, her pale blue eyes alight as she watched her family.

Elain couldn’t think of how to begin the conversation, but felt obliged to ask, “Are you enjoying your birthday?”

Feyre glanced at her briefly before directing her eyes back to her son. Rhysand had pulled him up from Cassian’s shoulders and his little wings beat frantically, though they weren’t yet strong enough to bear his weight. Feyre smiled, lines fanning out from her tired eyes. “I am now,” she said. “It wasn’t an auspicious start to the day, though.”

“What happened?” Elain wondered if she just meant being at the Hewn City or if something worse had happened.

But Feyre shook her head and said, “Oh, it was a tense day at the tithe. The Lesser Fae have had a bad harvest this year so the totals were unimpressive. And they want more than ever from Rhys,” her eyes darkened, brows creasing, “as though he doesn’t protect them enough. As his mate it’s hard to sit by and hear them blame him, like he can control the weather or eliminate bandits.”

She shifted in her seat to keep Rhys and Nyx in her view, and Elain caught a glimpse of a bright gold medallion around her neck, hung on a knobbly homespun cord. The gold was yellow and white hammered together, in painstaking handmade relief, to make a shimmering, undulating surface; Elain saw as the light played on its surface that it was worked into an image. An image of a toothy maw spread wide…claws on disturbingly human hands extended…

Feyre smiled brightly at her sister, noting the direction of her gaze, and picked up the medallion to show her. “Isn’t it lovely? I know the image is grotesque, but the workmanship is stunning, especially to be handmade.” She tilted it so Elain could see better. “One of the tithe attendees gave it to me as a gift. For my birthday.”

Elain leaned forward in appreciation. “What is it?” she asked. She’d never seen such a creature before, even with all the horrors of the past two years.

“I don’t know,” Feyre said, shrugging. “A creature holy to that specific tribe, I shouldn’t wonder.” She lowered her voice as if about to divulge a secret. “I think he thought appealing to me would make Rhys grant his request, but it was all the way in the south, and we haven’t any time to go so far. And it’d be close to impossible to travel there with Nyx so young too.” She admired the gleaming surface. “It is lovely though. One of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen at the tithe. Usually their work is so simple compared to the jewels of Velaris.”

Elain leaned forward and touched the medallion with her fingertip, and as she did, she heard a low roaring in her ears that swelled to obliterate the laughs of the party: a humming growl, low and undulating. The light of the party faded, until it was nothing more than the sparkle of a candle…and before her, a darkness, near total, but for the occasional glimmer. The light wavered oddly, like the cast from a flame — a larger flame, the writhing of its light against the shadows nearly twice Elain’s height, bent violently by gusts of wind. It reached no more than a few inches beyond where Elain stood, then slipped back into blackness. But there was movement there; movement that materialized into fur, mangy and stinking, and teeth, dripping with saliva, light glinting on the points of fangs as long as her fingers, vicious, hungry for blood. And then a rushing voice, filling her ears with a thousand whispers. A pact. An agreement. An old magic, invoked by charm and wrought by hand. It must be honored.

A vision. She knew it even as it spiraled into darkness, the whispers coiling into chaos and then clarifying into something more familiar. Into words. BACK. HOWEVER YOU FIGHT, IT WILL BE OF NO USE. WE WILL HAVE IT ALL BACK. It melted into a hoarse scream, a cry of attack…

But then she was sucked backwards into light, so bright that her eyes watered a bit in protest, trails of blackness still lingering across her vision; and she was at the party, thrown into its chatter and charm, and Feyre was laughing, throwing her head back, exclaiming, “Lucien! As I live and breathe! Rhys told me you were back, and I would’ve been so upset if you hadn’t come to see me.”

Elain blinked, and the last of the darkness slid away. Before her was the erstwhile prince of Autumn, his hair braided and smoothly caught back at the nape of his neck, a bright blue coat with subtle gold threading outlining his broad shoulders. Even dressed relatively modestly, he gleamed, all color and light, all mischief and elegant trickery. So Fae. Even now it sent ripples up her spine, sliding along the knife edge between fear of him and trust in him. His golden eye glinted as he returned Feyre’s smile. “I wouldn’t miss your birthday for all the stars in Velaris,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “Not that even you could give those away.”

“Don’t put it past me,” Feyre winked at him.

Lucien turned to Elain, whose voice was as firmly caught in her throat as a burr stuck in a glove. “Good evening, Lady,” he said, with a slight bow. She swallowed, and nodded.

His good eye narrowed, ever so slightly, taking her in at a quick glance. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, swinging his eyes back to Feyre, and smiling disarmingly. “The pair of you aren’t doing the party any favors sitting here without partaking.”

Feyre protested, laughing, but Lucien cocked his head and stared at her in mock accusation until she relented with a roll of her eyes. “Very well then. A half glass of the gold wine.”

He moved off toward the bar cart with a smooth stride. Feyre’s gaze shifted to Elain, whose hands were clenched tightly in her lap. What had he noticed?

Feyre leaned in and said, her eyes dancing, “That’s a magnificent color on him, don’t you agree?”

Elain blushed from her ears to her chest, hating her sister for being so open, so obvious, so damn gleeful. It was confusing enough to be around him without everyone watching and whispering. She was trying to figure out what to say when he returned, a glass in each hand. He handed the wine cup to Feyre, who thanked him and then slyly slid away; he pushed a highball glass into her hand as they found themselves alone.

“Drink it,” he murmured, almost inaudible over the chatter of the party. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

She clutched the glass hard and stared at him.

“It’s only water,” he said, a trifle defensive. “You should drink it. It’s too warm in here and you’re flushed.” He leaned forward against the chaise, body language utterly relaxed — no one watching from a distance would think he was talking about anything but pleasantries — but a strain in his voice belied all that as he asked, “Did you just have…a vision?”

She put the glass to her lips and drank, the cold of the water a welcome rush on her tongue. The shock of it loosened her voice. She tried to stay as calm as possible, to imitate his nonchalance. “How did you know?”

His smile was tight. Pained. “Even if I hadn’t felt it here…” he touched his chest lightly, over his heart — “your face would’ve given it away.”

“How?”

“You…” He flexed his fingers as if they hurt. “You looked the same as…as back then. When you were first Fae.” He threw a glance at the fireplace with its evergreen bower and gestured at it, maintaining the small talk facade with ease. “Are you well?”

Surprised, she couldn’t help but turn and look him full in the face. “I’m…”

He turned his head, quizzical, as she trailed off. “You’re…not well?”

“No, I’m all right,” she said, hurriedly. “But — you don’t want to know what I saw?”

Everyone always pounced when they heard she’d had a vision, starving for details, most of which she could never recall. But his eyebrows twitched together and back apart as he wiped the concern from his face, turning it bland and calm. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.”

Elain drew in a deep breath and let it out in a trembling sigh that turned into a laugh, tremulous and true and even a little sad, if she was honest. He cast his eyes down and smiled at his hands, folded on the back of the couch. “Don’t laugh at me, Lady.”

“But you’re ridiculous, my lord,” she said, her humor finally cresting over the prickle behind her eyes.

“Eternally,” he agreed.

She was about to give him a pert answer when she noticed Feyre, standing on the other side of the parlor and grinning like the Mad Cat in their childhood storybook. As their eyes locked, Feyre seized Mor’s arm, and the two of them turned away at the same moment, leaning their heads together. Elain fought against a stab of annoyance at their interference and slid her gaze across the room, only to briefly lock with Amren, who returned it with narrow, flinty eyes that were somehow both flat and depthless. Elain felt her hackles rise like she was staring down a predator…like the gaping hungry mouth in her vision. But she forced a smile, and raised her glass slightly. Amren inclined her head in the barest of nods and raised her own goblet, and the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a knowing, feral smirk.

Lucien followed her gaze and then looked immediately away, back down at his hands, shifting as though he too had caught the expression on Amren’s icy features. “Being watched all the time must get tedious,” he said. “No wonder you guard your secrets.”

“I have none of consequence,” she murmured.

“And now you’re even bringing in lies. How enchanting.” His foxlike grin split his face. She couldn’t control the lurch in her chest. “I like you deceitful, Blossom. It’s intriguing.”

“Well, everyone else has their secrets,” she fired at him. “Can’t I have any of my own?”

“Certainly,” he said. He seemed utterly earnest. “I only ask that you promise to share with me the ones you ask me to keep.”

She paled. Was he going to give her away? An outright lie to Cassian and Nesta, a lie of omission to Rhysand and Feyre…they’d have her under the daemati claws in no time…there would be no secrets then, no mind left, they’d have it all and she’d be a shell of herself…

He extended his hand in a calming motion, seeming to sense her unease. “Not just yet,” he murmured. “When you’re ready. Til you instruct it, I’ll keep my silence.”

She couldn’t think of what to say, but he straightened up and nodded as Rhysand approached. She froze, feeling the sly rake of her brother-in-law’s claws across her thoughts, and focused hard on the half-full drink in her hand.

“Lucien,” Rhys greeted him, smooth and effortless as always. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Lucien replied, and Elain was strongly reminded of the dukes and earls at the dances back in the human lands; that charm, the utter facility of sliding from one interaction to another. “Happiest of birthdays to the High Lady.”

Rhys nodded, immense satisfaction on his face as his violet eyes scanned the merry gathering. Cassian had Nyx on his shoulders; Nesta’s hand rested protectively on Nyx’s leg to keep him from falling backwards. Azriel sat by the window, shadows romping with the fluttering faelights, while Mor and Feyre argued playfully over a chessboard. And Amren stood slightly apart from the rest, her pale eyes surveying keenly. Rhys asked, a trifle absently, “How do the human lands fare?”

Lucien sighed. “The lands are buried under snow, as the seasons dictate. The humans themselves are…suffering.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows. “The fall harvest was sufficient. Once the crops come in in spring…”

“…they will still be suffering,” Lucien interrupted. “They cannot eat their seed crops if they hope to lay in the fields for next season. And yet they cannot starve. Everything there is restless. People who are hungry and sick and neglected will not tolerate it for long.”

Elain felt her insides squeeze in shock. No one interrupted the High Lord. Not even Feyre, who always gazed at him with pride. But even more critically, his words burrowed through her surprise: the humans were hungry and sick. That was her village. Her friends. Mayfer, the bustling harbor city where she’d visited to wait for her father’s ships. Her former home.

Lucien continued, “Jurian has purchased extra grain stores from the continent. And Vassa took in several hundred of the country folk who would have starved otherwise, onto Lord Nolan’s estate.”

“Generous of her,” Rhys remarked. He sounded ever so slightly bored, as his eyes followed Feyre’s every move.

“Just keeping body and soul together,” Lucien replied, and his tone dropped. His expression remained mild as Elain glanced between the two males. But without even knowing how she knew it, she thought he is angry, before remembering to keep her thoughts focused on her glass of water. Angry at Rhysand. For what?

It could be any number of things, a small voice inside her head hissed, and she felt a tiny stab of shame, then covered it with thinking of how cold the glass was in her hand, beading with condensation.

“Clearly. Come see me in the morning and give a full report,” Rhys said, calm and unconcerned. But his eyes flashed as they settled briefly upon Elain. “And get Elain another glass of water. She’s parched, aren’t you, little sister?” His smile was thin and cold, and he moved away, sleek as a shadow, to stand behind Feyre, one arm draped lazily over her shoulder, fiddling idly with the knobbly handwoven string that supported the gold medallion around her neck. She reached up to stroke his wrist; the very picture of domesticity. Elain was pleased to discover that she could in fact distract him with obvious surface thoughts, to misdirect from her deeper misgivings — since she had no expertise in mental shields, that could be a useful tactic, even if it was flimsy. But warring with her satisfaction came a deep unease. A pact. An agreement. An old magic…

“Presents!” Mor called out from close to the fireplace, dragging a sack of brightly wrapped gifts out of a pocket realm, and everyone clustered around the couch for the exchange. Elain knew this would dissolve into spoiling the baby, and she was right; everyone competed for the best present for Nyx, who was getting a bit tired and cranky, and wanted only to play with the bright ribbons on the packages. Everyone had gotten one another gifts, and everyone exclaimed over the silk scarves, the sharp knives, the antique astrolabe that Feyre had sourced from the Day Court for Rhys…but, Elain noticed again and again, no one had gotten any gifts for Lucien.

She stole another glance at him. He seemed unperturbed, smiling at the chaos of wrapping paper and mirth as Cassian opened a leather satchel from Mor with a suggestive shape. He howled with laughter as she winked and told him with supreme innocence that it was for use in the annual snowball fight. Nesta rolled her eyes, and Cassian stuffed the satchel into her hands with a hooded glance. Elain felt curiously voyeuristic, as though she’d witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to see; a tiny window into a private moment between her sister and the powerful male she was mated to. She thought of the little blue box, sitting on the table in the next room, and longed for the right moment to give it to Lucien. But it didn’t seem appropriate, not here; not with everyone watching. She didn’t dare to give everyone else a tiny window into what was — or perhaps wasn’t — between her and Lucien. Not when it would be giggled over and teased and demeaned.

She broke away a few minutes later to gather all her presents together — jasmine soap from Nesta, tulip bulbs from Feyre, a box of expensive spices from Rhys — and found him in the hallway pulling his cloak off the hook.

“You’re leaving?” she blurted out, before she could think of anything better to say.

He turned, masking his surprise with a wry grin. “Overstaying a welcome is poor etiquette, I’ve found.”

“You’re welcome here,” she insisted. Was it her imagination that his eyebrows twitched in denial?

“Thank you,” he said, “but I think this party is for family now. And I’m not that. Whatever else I may be.”

“But…” — was she really going to say it? Her stomach clenched. Brave. Be brave. “But…I haven’t given you your present yet.”

He froze, comically halfway through securing the cloak buttons. “My what?”

“Your — your present,” she stammered. Gods above, untie her tongue from these hopeless knots. “I’m sorry no one else got you anything. But I did.”

As soon as she said it, it sounded false. Petulant. Like she was seeking a compliment.

“What for?” he asked, and he sounded bemused enough that she laughed, short and quiet.

“For Solstice, silly,” she said. She beckoned him into the darkened sitting area, turning on the lamp as she did. He followed, wary, keeping his distance.

She pushed the box at him, unsure of how to proceed, but now committed to seeing it through. He stared at it as though it was a trick, or a bomb that would explode in his face if he touched it.

“But you didn’t need to get me anything,” he said.

“I — I know,” she said, and her courage flagged. The box sank an inch or two from where she’d held it out to him. “But I wanted to. You did save my life, remember, so it’s only fair that I thank you properly.” She squared her shoulders, and in an attempt at being merry, said with a faint smile, “And I have a few Solstices to catch up on with you.”

He still didn’t move.

“Take it.” She moved two steps closer, til the box was within reach of his hand.

And with a brief hesitation, he reached up and took the box from her, pulled the ribbon off it, and opened it.

Elain was consumed with the strangest twirling in her gut, a spiral of anxiety and excitement. Gods. Dear gods. It was stupid. So stupid. Unutterably stupid, in fact. How could she have thought that it would be enough, when she had never accepted his gifts with anything but awkwardness, that this tiny thing would say everything she wanted it to?

Her cheeks flamed. She wondered if this was what it was to slowly choke…to asphyxiate under the weight of her own mistakes.

And still it was quiet. Finally, desperately, she dragged her eyes up from where her fingers twisted with anxiety and —

— and he was looking at her, his face a mix of gratitude and grief. Their eyes locked so tightly she almost heard the click of a key.

“A hyraeth,” he murmured, pulling the little pin from the box. The jeweler had fashioned it from a single piece of bright yellow amber that caught the light like honey, but also gleamed like sunshine on water. Elain had selected it herself. The etchings on the edges were done in black lacquer, faceting the surface of the amber just like the patterns on butterflies’ wings. The jeweler had done a lovely job, but her stomach corkscrewed into her legs nonetheless. Did he not like it?

“Well, not a real one,” she said hurriedly. “Just their likeness in a pin for your hair, or your lapel. But I thought you might like it…they’re from the Autumn Court,” she blurted, realizing she was babbling and cursing herself roundly for it, trying to lower her voice, which - drown her in the damned cauldron - was so much louder than was necessary.

“I know,” he said. “From the Vilderavian Groves, at the borders of Summer.” His voice fractured ever so slightly at the edges.

Her eyes widened. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes,” he replied, and there was a reverence in his voice that rippled through her like wind through grass. “Long ago. Just once. They alight on the great trunks of the hemlock trees in a shimmering mass. An ocean of tiny wings, all amber and gold and black, whispering among the green foliage. It’s a special place; the only evergreen spot in Autumn. And the sight — the whole forest alive with trembling light — is magnificent. There’s nothing like it.”

She nodded. “It made me think…” She spread her hands in defeat. That home is a journey, rather than a place. That it might not obey borders or rules, but seek its own way across barriers. That to find it, to keep it, one can endure unimaginable toil and turmoil. That there is magic in the smallest things. “…that you might someday find a place for your heart to rest. Unfathomable as that may be now.”

She could have sworn there was a gleam in his eyes, just for a moment. He closed his hand over the little pin. “It’s beautiful,” he said, softly. And then, so gently that had she not been straining toward him with every cell of her treacherous body, she would not have heard him: “I think you’ve fathomed me quite well, Blossom. Thank you.”

His eyes slid down to her lips, so close…the moment brief and shimmering, a bubble on the wind…

…and it shattered, burst by the arrival of Nyx, screaming in uninhibited toddler glee as Cassian mock-chased him through the hallway and past the open doors. Lucien started and stepped back. Elain very nearly followed him, so strong was the pull of the bond’s tidal undertow in her ribs, but she knew it was too late. Misery blooming in her heart, she turned to go.

“Happy Solstice, Elain,” he murmured.

She looked back over her shoulder, and saw him standing in the pool of light from the lamp. In that moment, he seemed aglow himself somehow. A living sun.

“Happy Solstice, Lucien,” she replied; and, unbidden, unsought, a smile rose to her lips. He returned it, shyly — and low in her gut, an ember, dormant under the ash of everything that had happened, flickered into a tiny flame.

It was nothing, she told herself sternly as she climbed the stairs to her room. So small. But even a tiny light could bring a traveler safe home.

Elain could feel the heat blooming on her cheeks…a light tingling in her fingertips…but somehow, she couldn’t help but feel excited. She knew the dreams would come. But perhaps, even before the dreams arrived, there could be a decision first.

She collapsed against her door, fist pressed trembling to her mouth, as though to stuff the helpless giggle back down her throat, all unguarded from the fizzing happiness inside her. Gods, it was intoxicating. Had she truly forgotten what it was to feel joy? It was a light in her veins. Liquid, effervescent sun on the longest night of the year. She pulled the two winter roses from her bodice, tearing the lining slightly as they relinquished their hold. She tenderly set them down on her nightstand into a glass of water and busied herself undressing…not noticing, as she shucked off the little jacket and unfastened the silk of the bodice, draping the dress over the door of the wardrobe, that the flowers were uncurling, roots extending from the stems faster than any normal plant; leaves stretching out to fill the rim of the glass.

The rustle of the branches in the hedges outside grew louder. It could have been the wind; or a bird sleeping, stirring in its nest; or perhaps a thousand whispers. The moon was the only witness; and she was as silent as she had been since the birth of the planet beneath skies roiling with sulphur and fire, waiting, watching as everything beneath unfolded in miniature.

Back…

We will have it all back.

#elucien #acotar #elain archeron #fanfic #lucien vanserra #prythian #gwynriel #feyre archeron #anti rhysand #elucienweek2023 #winter solstice

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